It's Cold in Heaven
by misgivings
Summary: The cold is a persistent blanket he can't shake off, leaving him a shivering mess on the wet ground. Distantly, Casey realizes that he is lying in a pool of his own blood, but his mind is foggy and he can't recall how he ended up here.


_"Brother, can you see those birds? They don't look to heaven. They don't need religion, they can see.  
(...) It is cold in heaven, and no one's coming after me." — Undertow, R.E.M._

* * *

The cold is a persistent blanket he can't shake off, leaving him a shivering mess on the wet ground. Distantly, Casey realizes that he is lying in a pool of his own blood, but his mind is foggy and he can't recall how he ended up here. He feels almost numb, which should be unsettling, but really, all it does is bring temporary relief.

Severide is there, then, a warm and comforting presence as he keeps pressure on the wound with a sense of desperation and urgency, all the while begging him to keep his eyes open. The resulting pain draws Casey from his sluggish haze and he is acutely aware of his surroundings all too abruptly: everything from the stricken look on Severide's face to the feel of blood oozing out of his body.

"Hey," Severide is saying. "Stay with me, okay?"

Haunted eyes meet his own and Casey wants so desperately to erase the frown lines on Severide's face with assurances of his own safety. With short-lived clarity, he realizes that there is a small but notable gash above Severide's left eyebrow, crimson dripping down the side of his face. A laugh that sounds almost hysterical is the only response he gets when he expresses his concern.

"You should see the other guy," Severide says after a beat.

Casey has every intention of laughing, but his lungs feel like they're on fire and all he wants to do is _sleep_. He blinks, or at least he thinks he does, but when he opens his eyes again, there is undeniable panic written on Severide's face—like his eyes were shut for much longer than a few seconds._  
_

"Stay with me, Matt." Severide adds more pressure, but the flaring pain has subsided into a dull ache he can ignore. The almost-numb feeling returns shortly after, merciful in all its glory, allowing him blissful relief in its entirety from the razor-sharp pain in his side. "Don't you dare die on me. Not after everything we've been through." _Don't leave me_.

He's drowning, though, or maybe floating, but it doesn't matter because there is a beacon of light behind Severide, warm and inviting. The pleas sound like they're miles away, now, and Casey's eyes slip shut as the light consumes him.

oOo

He expects to wake with a vengeful pain, but is pleasantly surprised to find that he feels infinitely better than he had on the ground. There are birds chirping in the background, accompanied by the sound of running water, painting the perfect image of serenity in Matt's head.

"You gonna sleep all day, Casey?" The familiar voice is enough to startle Matt into opening his eyes.

"Andy?" It is humanly impossible for his late best friend to be standing before him, looking alive and well, but he's there and—damn it, of course he sounds hopeful.

"In the flesh," says Andy, grinning. "Well, kind of. I've just been looking for an excuse to say that."

Matt gapes, dumbfounded. "How?" he asks. Then, "Oh god, am I dead?" It's the only logical explanation, because now that he's taken the time to observe his surroundings, he's pretty sure they're in a park—on a damn _cloud_—which is startlingly cliché and laughable.

Andy makes a face at him, but takes a seat on the park bench. "Not quite," he explains. "At least, I'm here to make sure you don't die. It's not your time yet."

"What do you mean—" Matt cuts himself off, gaze critical and brow furrowed. "Don't tell me this is like the movies."

"I don't think dead firefighters have been done before, but hey, when you come back from the dead, you should claim the rights to a movie about this."

Matt sucks in a sharp breath, the attempt at humor falling on deaf ears. "I thought you just told me I wasn't dead."

The grin on Andy's face is immediately replaced with a more solemn look. "I said not quite," he murmurs. "You flat lined on the operating table. They revived you, but you're in a coma. A bunch of medical jargon was thrown here and there, but that was never my area of forte. Shay used to give me shit for that all the time, remember?"

It's too much information, too soon. There are a million questions Matt wants to ask, but his throat feels dry and words fail to come out. A familiar cold causes him to shiver, and he suddenly remembers Kelly cradling him against his chest in an attempt to stave off the late autumn breeze as he bled out. "Is Severide okay?"

"_Kelly's_ fine," Andy says with an eye roll.

It doesn't go by unnoticed. "What?"

"You two used to be on a first name basis all the time."

"Yeah, well, you weren't dead, then." Matt doesn't even know why he says it, but he's grateful that Andy doesn't punch him in the face. The guy _did_ always have the patience of a saint. He was apparently no different in the afterlife. Almost as if reading Matt's mind, the ghost of a smile appears on Andy's face and the tension vanishes just as easily as it had appeared.

"You two were long screwed up before I died," Andy responds honestly. "Don't put the blame on me. It's not like I asked you guys to blame each other for my death." He pauses, placing a comforting hand on Matt's shoulder. "Blame _me_ for my death if you need to, but I'm not at fault for you two being idiots." There's an open fondness in his tone that matches the placating smile—so much like the Andy whose death Matt had witnessed firsthand that he has to blink away tears.

"We're getting better," Matt mentions after regaining his composure. "Or we were, before all of this."

Andy offers him a small, knowing smile. "You think I don't know what goes on down there? I get front row seats to the soap opera you two call your lives." Before Matt can ask if that includes their _sex lives_ with an indignant expression and equally indignant squawk, Andy stands and gestures for him to follow. "I need to show you something."

oOo

The park dematerializes in a flash, replaced by a stark white hospital room. A haggard looking Severide is seated by the bed where Casey's battered form is unmoving and hooked up to various machines. Matt's eyes immediately zero in on their adjoined hands, noting the way Kelly is holding on to him—or rather, his past self—like a lifeline.

"Is this..." Matt trails off, unsure of what to say.

"This was two and a half years ago," Andy clarifies. "It's why our road trip got cut short. Kelly was driving and you were in the passenger seat. I was in the back, crying over relationship problems with Heather. An SUV ran a red light and collided with the passenger side. I got minor whiplash, and the worst of Kelly's injuries was a concussion and nasty bruising. You, though—you got the brunt of it, Matt. He never admitted it out loud, but Kelly was petrified. We were afraid we were going to lose you."

"Neither of you ever mentioned anything when I woke up," Matt says lamely.

Andy shrugs, eyes shining with unspoken understanding. "We didn't want to worry you with the knowledge of _us_ worrying."

Tentative and uncertain, Matt covers the distance between Severide and himself, fingers just-barely grazing his friend's shoulder before he promptly withdraws his hand. "I didn't think I'd be able to touch him," he tells Andy quietly. "But he just looks so _devastated_."

"He was, Matt. He _is_. Front-row seat, remember? I saw how he was after I died. I saw how _you_ were after I died. You both always blamed yourself for things you weren't to blame for." From the peripheral of his vision, Matt spies Andy gazing down at the floor. "It's why you clashed. You were both tired of feeling that constant guilt, so you blamed each other. It was like some law of nature."

There is a fleeting silence, save for the steady rhythm of beeping instruments, before Matt scrutinizes Andy and asks, "What do you mean he _is_? Can you see him?"

"Seriously? All this word vomit and you keep focusing on one thing?" When Matt glowers, Andy throws his hands up in mock surrender. "You and Kelly are so pissy these days. I'm only trying to mollify the situation here."

"I didn't realize heaven has a collection of dictionaries," Matt deadpans.

"You're lucky I can't throw anything at you. Shut up and follow me."

oOo

It shouldn't surprise him that the door leads to an altogether different setting instead of to a hallway, but the fact remains that he is still reeling from a substantial portion of new information. "You could at least warn a guy before you send him traveling through time and space," Matt mutters.

"He's still learning, you know," a distinct female voice says. Matt whips around and is greeted by Hallie's pleasant smile. "Then again, so am I." His dead fiancée is perched beside his dead best friend on a gravestone and _Jesus Christ_, did they get a kick out of pulling the rug out from underneath him?

"I'll be taking over," explains Hallie, hopping off and striding over to Matt. She doesn't even bother with formalities, opting instead to drag him along by the hand. Andy waves at him, winking as he does. Matt thanks the heavens that it doesn't feel like a goodbye, the irony of his gratefulness not lost on him.

"Andy showed you something from your past," Hallie says without preamble, when Andy can no longer be spotted. "I get to show you something from your future."

"Why is this beginning to sound like The Christmas Carol?"

Hallie's laugh is genuine and delightful—identical to the one he sometimes hears in his dreams. "You're asking the wrong person," is the only real answer she supplies.

"Who should I be asking, then?" he counters.

For a moment, Matt thinks she'll leave him hanging, but she finally says, "Yourself."

oOo

The rest of their journey is dull in comparison—not that Matt is complaining—but Hallie is _there_, practically tangible, which makes the time considerably less dull. Neither of them say much, apart from the occasional, "We've been walking forever," followed by a defiant, "Stop being impatient." Silence like this usually drives him insane, but he'll readily accept any opportunity to reflect.

Ten minutes into the trip, or what he perceives as ten minutes into the trip, an epiphany strikes him: Hallie isn't clad in any ordinary white dress. "Your mother's wedding dress," he breathes out, but she says nothing. Her earlier implication sends shivers down his spine. _You should be asking yourself_.

"I kept revisiting the past after Andy died," Matt continues, taking a shot in the dark, "but I kept imagining the future I would never have after I lost you."

Hallie's swift movements slow to a stop, and it's all the warning he gets before she envelopes him in a warm embrace. "Don't dwell on anything but the present," she says, voice thick with emotion. He's unable to do anything but nod as Hallie relinquishes her hold, caressing his cheek before stepping back.

Her gaze shifts from his face to something behind him, piquing his curiosity. He wishes it hadn't piqued anything at all because the cold returns with a vengeance as soon as Matt glances over his shoulder. Silhouettes cloaked in black are crowded together underneath matching umbrellas—an obvious attempt to shield themselves from the unrelenting rain—as another silhouette speaks before them.

"Look closer," Andy's voice encourages.

Matt pivots his body to study the group more intently. Involuntarily, his legs carry him forward, covering the distance between him and the now dispersing group. When there are just two figures left standing before him, the breath catches in his throat. Shay and Severide are wrapped up in each other's arms, clinging to each other like they'll fall apart if someone doesn't hold the pieces together. Matt doesn't have to read the name on the gravestone to know it's him they're mourning.

"Do I—" He swallows, forcing down the sudden onslaught of emotions. "Am I dead here?"

"Only if you stay with us," Hallie says. "Just open your eyes, Matt." _Please open your eyes._

He does a double take, because that voice is unmistakably Kelly's.

"He can't lose you," Andy adds. _Don't make me lose you, too. Not like this. Not this soon._

In a futile attempt to go back, Matt shuts his eyes and inhales. He tries counting backwards from one hundred when it doesn't work. He prays, he begs, he searches. He tries a dozen or more things, but to no avail. "Nothing is working," he hisses. "Why is nothing working?"

"Because there's one ghost you haven't seen yet." Matt's body goes rigid. "Seeing is believing, Matthew. You need to open your eyes."

He reluctantly does as he's told and sobs the second his eyes are open. His father—covered in so much _red_—stands between both Andy's and Hallie's gravestones, with their charred remains lying in the open graves. "You have to let us go, son," his father says. "Please, Matthew. If not for us, do it for your friends."

It dawns on Matt that they are no longer in a cemetery, the downpour of rain replaced by fluorescent lights. Severide is sitting on the hallway floor a few feet away, a bundle of nervous energy as he rocks back and forth. Since he last saw the other man, Severide looks like he's aged years.

Matt looks up in time to see Shay kneel in front of her roommate, concern etched so obviously on her face. "Kelly, Matt is going to be okay. Come on, we need to get some food in you." Severide shakes his head, wordlessly, and Shay purses her lips. "Okay. Why don't you go back into the room? I'll get us both some dinner."

She gets up before helping Severide do the same. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, but she manages a small smile. "I'll sneak some food in for Matt, too," she adds. "We can have a pizza party, the three of us, as soon as he opens those pretty little eyes." Pulling Severide into a hug, Shay strokes his back, a gesture of pure comfort.

There's a sharp pang of guilt that elicits a series of other emotions in Matt as he watches the scene unfold. He doesn't want to leave his friends—his _family_—least of all cause them pain. Another sharp pang, more physical than emotional, causes him to stumble. The pain leaves him breathless and the only thing that anchors him is his father's encouraging voice.

"It's okay, son. The pain just means you're ready."

_Ready for what_, he wants to ask, but he's drowning again and he can't resurface.

His father's face is the last thing he sees before darkness engulfs him.

oOo

The first thing Matt notices when he stirs is that he no longer feels cold. He is nestled between a cocoon of blankets and cool sheets, the perfect balance in temperature. Kelly is mumbling what sounds like prayers of hope from where he is seated just a few inches away, Matt's right hand situated in both of his.

A sudden, overwhelming urge to say Kelly's name courses through his entire body—from his head to his heart to his toes—but the fog surrounding his mind is only just clearing and words again fail to leave his throat. Frustrated, he silently implores Kelly to look up, because his body is deceiving him, too heavy to move with the little energy he can summon.

Kelly's soft breath against his hand must be a sign from God or Andy or just pure _luck_, because the second Matt's fingers twitch, Kelly's eyes are on him. He sounds achingly skeptical when he breathes out Matt's name, like maybe he's dreamed of Matt waking up, but the tension bleeds from his shoulders and they both breathe easy.

* * *

**Notes:** I am such a sucker for hurt/comfort, but I'm an even bigger sucker for happy endings. Apparently, I'm also a sucker for clichés, because that's exactly what this story is. (I'm so sorry. Blame the inspiration fairies.) That said, I'd like to mention that perception is everything here. I wrote this with every intention of being ambiguous, so whether you see this as implicit slash, pre-slash or friendship is completely up to you.


End file.
